


Close as a Heartbeat

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dimension Travel, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5052058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly is a fighter and healer for the Griffin wing of the resistance army.  An unfortunate mispronunciation during a spell transports him to France in 1827, and even though his magic doesn't seem to want to function, at least the people he has fallen in with are kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close as a Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sovin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/gifts).



> Written for Sovin for the Les Mis Halloween Exchange. I loved all the prompts, but I couldn't resist the idea of one of them as a dimension traveler. I hope that you enjoy!

_Close as a Heartbeat_

He comes tumbling through the portal onto two people who are in the middle of intercourse.

This is problematic for a number of reasons. First, he had no intention of opening a portal _anywhere_ , let alone a portal to somewhere that is very clearly far from home. The spell he had been weaving was supposed to be a _binding_ spell, not a transportation spell, though he suspects it was his difficulty with the _ra_ syllable that caused the mix-up.

Secondly, falling six feet unexpectedly is never a pleasant experience, and this time is no different. He supposes it's a good thing he _only_ fell six feet, and that there was a relatively soft landing spot, even if it was already occupied by a number of knees and elbows that leave a nice pattern of bruises for everyone to discover once they've sorted out what body parts belong to whom.

Thirdly, it's really quite _rude_ to witness someone in the midst of intercourse if one has not been invited, and falling through a portal from a battlefield definitely does not count as being invited.

Thankfully the individuals that he has interrupted seem more flustered and astonished than angry. After ascertaining that he has no intentions of either murdering or dishonoring them through a series of frantic gesticulations and an exchange of words whose exact meaning is unclear but whose tonal implications are quite obvious, they stare between him and the now-smooth wooden edifice where the portal had been in clear disbelief.

Where the portal _had_ been, and that's really the fourth problem with falling into a pile of—admittedly quite fetching—human flesh. Clearly his concentration broke, and with it whatever botched spell it was that held the portal open.

Well, that's all right. He'll just have to try very hard to recreate the circumstances, and at least if he can _intentionally_ cast the portal perhaps he can keep it from depositing him in some awkward position. Such as atop an enemy's sword. He would really prefer to survive his return to the battlefield if possible.

Disentangling his staff from the fingers of the female who is currently running her hands up and down it, he straightens to his full height, a smile flashing across his face as he does. The flickering lantern fire that is lighting the room says the two individuals before him aren't strong mages—or if they are, they have a preference for true fire, he supposes. Still, there is at least a _chance_ that he will get to show off.

Pointing the slick black wooden length at a solid wall, he intones the spell that resulted in his being deposited here in the first place.

And absolutely nothing happens.

He _knows_ that nothing is going to happen before he comes to the end of the spell, honestly. There should be a feeling of power gathering around him, a tingle on his skin, tiny flicks of blue fire on the staff. Even if the spell fails, there should be a discharge of the power that he has gathered with the ancient words. There should be _something._

Instead there is a stubbornly blank wall, and the equally blank stares of the naked people whose domicile he is invading.

He tries the spell again, just to be certain, putting more _l_ and less _r_ in the final syllable, the trick that he is really quite terrible at.

Likely the reason he ended up here.

Still nothing.

Well.

For the first time since he came tumbling down into this place, it occurs to him that he might be stuck here.

That _here_ may be rather farther from home than he had ever considered.

The people on what is clearly a bed, though the shape and coverings are different from what he is used to, whisper to each other in their language.

Stomach clenched tight with dread, he points the staff at himself and quickly intones the spell for translation.

Nothing.

The man on the bed, who has arranged the unfamiliar bedclothes so that they cover his genitalia, asks something that is clearly a question.

A question that is still completely incomprehensible, though he should hear his familiar native tongue overlaying the unfamiliar syllables.

Or... not _completely_ unfamiliar. Language is one of the things that he enjoys, almost as much as he enjoys magecraft and healing, and the syllables that the naked man is saying sound rather similar to those of the Seul Choix people. The harbormasters have been his people's allies in the war, and he is at least _somewhat_ familiar with their language.

"My name." He stutters out the phrase in the Seul Choix language, hoping that he is guessing correctly what he is being asked and that it will be semi-comprehensible to these people. "My name is Gieullie. I am a mage, a healer and fighter for the Democratic League of Nations."

The woman blinks; the man stares.

Then the woman, who has not bothered to hide her nakedness, stands, gathering one of the layers of fabric from the bed into her hands. It happens to be the one that the male is using to hide his penis, and there is a brief exchange of words and a highly aggrieved look from the man, but he surrenders the covering.

Moving one step at a time, her eyes watching his face intently, the woman moves towards him, the blanket held before her in obvious offer.

He takes it, holding it awkwardly along with his staff, not certain what exactly he's supposed to _do_ with it. Hopefully this is not some kind of important ceremonial greeting that he is ruining due to simple ignorance. He has _tried_ to be a good first contact, those few times he has been ambassador to a new plane or place. "Ah... thank you. It is a lovely piece of... fabric. Plant-based? No, I suspect animal-based. Um... yes. Quite lovely."

"Joly?" The woman takes the fabric from his hands and drapes it about his shoulders, in a gesture that needs no translation. Evidently the woman has decided that he is in need of care, which is better than some other conclusions she could have come to. Taking a surreptitious sniff of his arm as he hugs the blanket closer confirms that he does still smell of smoke and magefire and blood, and he is glad that has translated into care rather than caution.

The woman pokes a finger against his chest. " _Joly?_ "

Only after the second repetition does he understand that it's an attempt at saying his name. "Ah... Gieullie! Yes, that's me."

"Joly." The woman nods, smiling, and he finds that she is absolutely beautiful when she smiles, her dark eyes glittering in the plain firelight.

Well, it's close enough. He has certainly done a far worse massacre job on foreign names even with his translation spells. "Sure. Joly it is."

The newly dubbed Joly finds himself being escorted quite firmly out of the room where he had initially appeared and urged to sit in a chair that is deep and comfortable. Tucking the blanket more tightly around him, the woman nods, pats his head, and retreats back to the room that they had both been in previously.

Seeing no harm in staying and no gain in abandoning a place where he is being welcomed, Joly settles down to wait for the woman to reappear.

XXX

Bossuet stands on the bed, reaching up and rapping his knuckles against the quite-firm wood of the ceiling.

Wood that had not _been_ there five minutes ago, when the strange man that Musichetta has just escorted out of the bedroom appeared. Wood that had been replaced by a circular hole rimmed with black runes that had hurt his eyes to look at, and _through_ the hole...

The sky is blue. The sky can be any number of blue colors. It can sometimes even be white or gray or silver, and if it is around sunset perhaps it can be red or pink or purple, but it should _not_ be the color that he had seen through the hole. He's not sure he can even say _what_ color it was, just that it was decidedly unnatural.

_Everything_ through the hole in the world had been unnatural. He only had a brief glimpse, but he has seen fighting in the streets of Paris already, and he has no doubt that what he saw was some piece of a larger battle. Only it had been a very _strange_ battle, because instead of guns many of the combatants carried staves like the one their uninvited guest holds, and _from_ those staves—

Clothing bounces off his knee, and he turns to see that Musichetta has returned. "Come on. Dress so that we can go speak with our guest."

"Our _guest_ fell from a hole in the ceiling." Bossuet pats the wood. "A hole that was not there prior to his arrival and is not there now."

"Very astute powers of observation." Musichetta smiles at him, though her tone is dry. "He smells like a battlefield and looks utterly confused by everything. I, for one, would like to go ask him about where he came from, what he's wearing, how he got here, and what he intends to do. I feel that this conversation would go much more smoothly if we were to all be dressed, though."

"All right, I'm dressing!" Bossuet sighs. "I should have known the evening had been too pleasant to last."

"Oh, come now." Musichetta reaches around him, disentangling one of her undergarments from the sheets. "Don't you find this exciting?"

"Oh, it's very exciting." Grabbing his lover's hips, Bossuet plants a kiss on her cheek. "Just a very different kind of excitement from what I had in mind."

"Don't worry, I don't intend to let you get away without making good on all those promises you gave me of your prowess." Musichetta trails a finger down his chest before pulling away to gather her skirts. "Unless this _is_ what you meant when you said that you could take me to a whole new world?"

"I think... and I apologize for how mad this is going to sound, but I've really no other way to describe what's happening... it's more like we've kidnapped someone _from_ a whole other world. Entirely unintentionally, but... well... did you see the... the...?"

"Dogs with three heads? Lions with wings? Serpents with riders who were throwing what looked like small pieces of suns at each other?"

Bossuet finds himself gaping at his lover. "I... mostly saw someone setting people on fire by pointing a staff at them. And another freezing people to the ground."

"Yes, well, _I_ was looking up before he toppled onto us." Musichetta grins, coming over to plant a brief chaste kiss on his cheek. "We'll have to work on your build-up a bit more. But first—to our traveler?"

"Right." Bossuet ties the laces on his trousers, wondering how Musichetta managed to dress faster and much more neatly than he did. "To our guest."

XXX

The male and female return, clothed in many layers. Joly looks down at his own simple tunic and breeches, both dyed the dark green of a healer with the League's griffin patch carefully embroidered on each sleeve, and wonders what they think of his dress.

The woman gathers a metal pot with a peculiar shape and heads out a different door; the man fills a metal bowl with water, gathers several cloths of varying sizes, and settles down next to Joly.

He pantomimes dipping one of the cloths into the water and scrubbing it against his skin, then offers the cloth to Joly. "Clean?"

The accent is quite different, but Joly is _fairly_ certain it's the Seul Choix word for clean that he uses. That would certainly seem to make sense with the gestures he made. And Joly _is_ rather dirty. Given that it seems he won't be returning to the battlefield anytime soon, cleaning is probably a good thing.

Joly relaxes as he cleans. He vastly prefers cleanliness to dirtiness, though he knows from experience that there is very little that can be done about the mess that a battlefield usually becomes. There are some mages who dally about with spells to try to keep their skin or clothes clean, but Joly finds it much more practical to focus his magical energy on survival and simply take the time to clean himself when he's done. Besides, there is a kind of ritualistic calm that comes from cleaning after a battle, a sense of things having been completed when the last of the blood is washed from one's hands.

Though this may be the last time he does such a thing, if he cannot figure out how to return home.

For the first time since Joly found himself stranded here and his magic unresponsive, the idea that he may not be able to return home feels _real_.

It stops him mid-motion, freezes his hand into a clenched fist around the cloth that he is using to wash down his chest. His lips and his fingertips and his toes abruptly feel cold and tingly and distant, and he finds his eyes darting about the room, fixing on both familiar and unfamiliar objects with rabid abandon.

The male is both observant and intuitive. He notices within moments that something has changed. His first course of action is to survey the room, his back to Joly, one hand gesturing in what Joly suspects is supposed to be a request for Joly to stay put, the other fisted protectively in front of his chest.

When it becomes apparent that there is no immediate threat in the vicinity, the man turns back to Joly with an expression that has far more sympathy than Joly ever expected. He settles down next to Joly on the floor, reaching out with hesitant fingers to take the cloth.

Then he finishes washing Joly down, his hands steady and sure, chattering all the while.

He speaks too quickly for Joly to follow much more than every fifth word, and Joly really isn't terribly sure of those words he _does_ catch, but he recognizes the tone. He recognizes the camaraderie and the good humor, and he relaxes, smiling and even giving a brief chuckle at what he thinks are the appropriate times, given pauses in the conversation. Or monologue, he supposes, since Joly himself is not providing much input.

When he is apparently clean to the male's satisfaction, the man helps him into a set of clothes—most likely a spare set of clothes belonging to the man, from the look and size. They are too large on Joly, but they are better than nothing, and it will give him a chance to clean his own.

"Thank you. Muchly." Joly annunciates each word slowly, carefully, hoping that it will be recognized.

"Welcome!" There is a great deal more that the man says, but even when he speaks slower there are too many words that Joly doesn't recognize.

Joly shrugs, helplessly. "Give me a few weeks. Then perhaps I can keep up."

"Weeks?" The woman has re-entered the room when Joly wasn't paying attention, a tray with several fragile-looking cups and the strange metal pot on it. She continues on, and Joly thinks he catches something like _impressive_ , and perhaps _strange_.

Both of which are true, whether they're being applied to him or the situation, so he just shrugs, smiles, and nods.

The woman laughs, setting the tray down on a small table. Taking one of the cups, she presses it into his hand, wrapping his fingers carefully around it.

The liquid inside is a dark brown, made nearly black by the flickering lantern light, and he studies it dubiously before taking a sip. He's clearly going to be here for some time. If the water is going to kill him, best he get started on it soon, because the human body can only last three days or so without liquid sustenance—two for him, probably, at this point, given the physical exertion he had done prior to arriving here.

The tea—he decides after the second sip or so that even if it is an unfamiliar tea that is most certainly what it is—burns a warm trail from his mouth down his esophagus into his stomach, and he sighs in contentment. If this world is going to kill him, at least it's going to do so pleasantly.

"Good?" The woman flashes her warm smile at him again.

"Good." He nods for emphasis.

"I'm glad." The woman continues to smile as she resettles the blanket around Joly's shoulders. Then she points to herself. "Musichetta."

The man points to himself. "Bossuet." Then he points to Joly. "Joly?"

Joly nods. "Joly." He points to the man. "Bossuet." He points to the woman. "Musichetta. Thank you."

"Welcome." The woman smiles. Then she asks a series of questions too fast for him to follow.

Joly holds his hands palm-up, making a face that he hopes demonstrates his confusion.

Bossuet and Musichetta talk back and forth for almost a minute, very rapidly.

Joly watches them, his eyelids feeling heavier and heavier as he continues to sip at his tea. It has been a very long day, and he has used a great deal of energy over the last few hours trying to keep himself and his patients alive.

Musichetta grabs the cup before he can spill anything on himself, making a soft tutting sound in the back of her throat. She grabs him under his right arm; Bossuet grabs him under his left.

Joly is conscious when they tuck him into bed, but just barely, and he hopes that his muttered thanks are comprehensible as he drifts off to sleep.

XXX

"He speaks something _almost_ like French." Musichetta smoothes Joly's hair away from his face as she tucks the blankets more firmly around their visitor. "I don't think it's his first language, though."

"Not from the way he stumbles with it. I also... well, like you said, I don't think it's _quite_ French. Close enough that we can recognize enough words to communicate, but not _actually_ any recognizable language." Bossuet runs a hand back through his thinning hair.

"I suppose we should be grateful we recognize anything at all, given... well." Musichetta has gathered up Joly's clothes, and her fingers trace over the emblem embroidered in gold thread on one of the shoulders. Somehow Bossuet suspects the griffin is far less metaphorical in Joly's world than it is in theirs.

"Do you think this will be real, in the morning?" Bossuet looks between his lover and the man currently scrunched up on one side of the bed, swaddled in blankets. "Or is this some kind of very bizarre dream?"

"If it is a dream, I shall have a great deal of fun recounting it to you in the morning." Musichetta grins, though it fades as she studies their guest's gaunt face. "And I suppose it would make sense for me to dream of war and revolution, even in a world of magic."

"It would make sense for both of us." Bossuet slides an arm around Musichetta's waist, holding her tightly. "But I don't think that's what it is. I think this is something quite wonderful."

"I agree." Musichetta's words are distorted by a yawn, which she covers belatedly with her left hand. "Though I think we had best go to sleep, ourselves, the better to find out if this is a dream."

"An acceptable suggestion, with one small problem." Bossuet inclines his head towards the figure on the bed. "Where are we sleeping?"

"Well, a gentleman would take the floor..." Musichetta laughs at the dismayed look on his face, and trails a finger over his forehead before kissing the center of it. "But I think, in this case, an exception can be made. You wouldn't want to leave me alone in bed with another man, now would you? And I've no desire to sleep on the floor. And no, we could not have made the poor boy take the floor, not with how pale and tired he looked."

"I do believe the poor boy is not that much younger than me." Bossuet sighs, crawling into bed between Joly and Musichetta. "And a warrior, no less."

"And are you not a warrior?" Musichetta sheds most of her clothes with an eel's swift grace, following him into bed. "I do believe I have seen you in circumstances not so very different from the ones that he was embroiled in."

"Oh, they were quite different. We've no dragons and unicorns fighting at our sides."

"He might not, either." Musichetta's arm drapes itself possessively across Bossuet's chest, and she curls in tight to his side. "I didn't see any of those."

"Yes, but the point still stands that they _could_ exist in his world." Now it is Bossuet's turn to cover a yawn. "Besides which, we don't even know why he was fighting."

"We'll have to ask him about it, when he can understand the question." Musichetta's head is buried against his shoulder. "Though given that he didn't attack us, or do anything more threatening than aim his stick at the wall, I hope to find his reasons... well, reasonable."

"Very eloquent, my star." Bossuet strokes his hand through Musichetta's beautiful hair.

"I've no reason to be eloquent." Musichetta's teeth ghost against his ear. " _I_ am not studying to be a lawyer."

"You wound me with your accusations! Should the revolution succeed, there will be—" Bossuet yawns, as well. "No need for lawyers, at least not so far as we are familiar with them. I am striving quite purposefully to make my profession extinct before I have even entered it."

"Both of us know that there will always be lawyers. It's just whether or not you find the laws that you are studying and upholding palatable or not."

"And then perhaps it will be legitimate praise that is given to lawyers, rather than a reward for successful preys on those weaker than them."

"That is a terrible play on words." Musichetta smiles, though—he can feel the curve of her lips against his neck as she kisses him.

Just as he can feel the warmth of the stranger against his back, and he wonders, not for the first time tonight, where this stranger from a strange land will fit into their lives over the coming days.

XXX

It takes him a little over three weeks to become decently fluent in the language.

Bossuet and Musichetta help him immensely, the two being kind enough to devote a large part of their evenings to going over vocabulary and sentence construction with him, speaking slowly and clearly so that he can follow. He suspects that at least some of the spells he had worked into his own body over the years functioned for longer than his active magic—the ones for quick acquisition of language, for speedy healing, for resistance to disease. Though he hasn't been able to cast a single successful spell since his ungainly arrival, he has managed to learn the language, and he has gotten only a handful of easily-overcome colds rather than any significant illnesses.

He is certain that his passive abilities will fade as his time in this world increases, though, and so he does everything that he can to prevent their loss. He spends a solid half hour his third day in their world trying to figure out if Bossuet is familiar with the concept of magnetism and if their world even _has_ a magnetic north, so that he can arrange the mattress they so helpfully acquired him so that the world _should_ augment rather than decrease his power while he sleeps. He monitors his own vitals closely, always on guard for any signs of significant illness, and has Bossuet help him acquire medical texts, so that he can both learn the written language and learn what treatments are available when magic is removed from the equation.

He learns a great deal very quickly, during those first few weeks, but he suspects it's going to take him months if not years longer to really come to _understand_ this world he's found himself in.

"It was _indefensible_." Joly is still ranting when he and Musichetta arrive back at the rooms that they are currently sharing with Bossuet. "Even if I couldn't understand all that they said, their intonation made clear their mockery and what I _could_ understand I find—"

"Infuriating, intolerable, and indecent, I know." Musichetta sighs, turning to Bossuet and spreading her arms in a gesture that Joly has learned to interpret as meaning he is being irritating and she is passing him off for at least a short amount of time.

Bossuet pats him on the arm, pulling him aside and allowing Musichetta to move into the apartment with her small basket of shopping that they managed to procure before the incident. "Perhaps if you started at the beginning, I would be able to get a clearer understanding of what this incident entails."

"I would happily begin at the beginning, but it seems that by the time I noticed an incident was occurring, it had already escalated to the point of insults being thrown." Joly can feel his face heat as he remembers the leering faces of the men who had surrounded them, the quick, clipped words that he had just barely been able to follow.

"It was Plourde and his compatriots." Musichetta speaks as she works, her face turned away. "He recognized me from the rally last month—thought I was associated with the Amis."

"Well, you _are_ , in a way." Bossuet's face has suddenly become grim, and he moves from Joly's side to Musichetta's. "You certainly support our causes, and you're involved with _me_."

"I _am_ involved with you, and I _do_ support your cause, but you know I've contact with those who put a bit more emphasis on _my_ causes that I prefer to claim as my own." Musichetta leans back as Bossuet wraps his arms around her waist, her eyes closing, and there is an easing of tension from her whole body as she sighs.

"The Amis work with your Ladies." Bossuet has his head nuzzled against Musichetta's neck, and his words are hard for Joly to hear and parse, necessitating him moving closer. "And I'm fairly certain if you allowed him, Bahorel would have membership with you."

Musichetta laughs, the first time she has shown any hint of mirth since the men began harassing her. "Bahorel would happily join the Society for Burning Random Buildings, if he thought they would actually _do_ it and if they had some expressed anti-royalist sentiment."

"Probably." Bossuet's head rises, and there is a wide grin on his face, though his voice is still deadly serious. "Though really, who could blame him? _I_ would be tempted by a group so daring as to declare their purpose is to burn random bits of property. I assume they would be functioning under the belief that property is most likely owned by the oppressors, and that the material loss of belongings felt by the oppressed would be somehow offset by their joy in seeing fire?"

Musichetta swats his arm, though the motion is gentle, more a caress by the time her hand actually strikes home than a strike. "Stop taking me so seriously when you know that I am merely being silly."

"Oh, but your silly idea has given _me_ so many silly ideas, and I simply must share." Bossuet straightens, and his grin vanishes, though his eyes continue to twinkle with merriment. "Such as my thoughts on how Bahorel would circumvent the requirement that one be a woman to join your Ladies. If he were to wear a dress, do you think he would be able to pass as a woman?"

Musichetta pulls away from Bossuet, though she is laughing as she shakes her head. "I'm not sure there's a dress in the world that could contain that man."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I think a bright red dress, with some very fetching sleeves—"

"Stop, stop, you're going to confuse our poor guest!" Musichetta gestures to Joly, still smiling.

Joly looks down at the ground, his face heating. Should he have stepped out while Bossuet and Musichetta talked? It is clear that they are courting. Though Joly doesn't entirely understand the courtship procedures of their world, is confused as to where the distinctions lie between friends and temporary mate and life partner, the timing of his entrance had left him in no doubt that they are at least the second, and his weeks with them have made him think they are likely working towards the last.

He has found himself jealous, sometimes, of the easy physicality that they demonstrate while in the house. He has found himself wishing for a hug, a touch, a kiss from either of their lips—and then found himself confused when they _do_ include him in their touches, not sure exactly what they may wish of him. It must just be an expression of friendship, especially when they do so in full sight of their partner, and so he tries to simply enjoy it. Tries not to wonder if things would be different, if he had _not_ stumbled upon them in bed together.

Tries to tell himself that _hopefully_ he will be able to go home, one day, though that hope seems thinner and duller and less likely with each passing day.

Tells himself that their world is vast, and just because he seems to have been lucky enough to stumble upon two of the best does not mean he won't find someone else just as fantastic.

Musichetta's fingers glance across his cheek, find his chin and lift his head so that he is studying her wry smile. "Thank you for earlier, Joly. Things might have become more ugly if you didn't step in when you did."

"I did nothing." Joly shakes his head. "I merely told them to stop insulting my companion."

"Oh?" Bossuet has followed Musichetta back to his side, is studying Joly with obvious approval.

"He is being very modest." Musichetta turns to Bossuet, though her hand finds Joly's, her fingers squeezing gently. "Plourde thought that I was alone, and intended to intimidate me, to 'teach me my place', to borrow his own pedantic and uninspired words. Joly jumped in front of him, brandishing that cane of his and calling him... well, I'm not sure all that he called him, but I know it was insulting."

"The things he said were irresponsible and patently untrue." Joly keeps his anger on a tight leash. "How could one believe that a woman has no place in politics or academia or battle? Some of my best commanders were women. We would not have held onto our land for so long without the help of women."

"I somehow manage to forget, sometimes, that you come from a world in turmoil, too." Bossuet sighs out a breath. "Though I find myself curious. You truly had female battle commanders?"

"Yes." Joly blinks.

"And they weren't..." Bossuet's eyes flick to Musichetta. "You saw no difference between a male and a female commander?"

"Why should we have?" Joly feels, once more, that this world is far beyond his understanding. "Every commander had their own style, of course, but why should that style be influenced by their gender?"

Musichetta stares up at him, her eyes bright with an eagerness he has seen only a few times before. "And if peace had come... would there have been a difference between the sexes then? If you weren't at war?"

"I... don't think I quite understand what you mean."

"When your people drive off the invaders, what kind of government did you intend to set up?" Bossuet is also eager, now. "Were you fighting for a king?"

"I should hope not. We were fighting to avoid becoming part of the Empire of the Sun! Why should we do that and then put a king on a throne over us?" Joly can't quite keep the indignation from his voice, though he supposes these people, in this world, have as much knowledge of _his_ war as he has of theirs.

And they _are_ at war, he realizes as he watches the way Bossuet and Musichetta exchange information with a few quick glances and phrases. They are in love, and they are also at war—a very different war from the one that he fought, an internal rather than an external war, but still a war.

"Well, people have done far sillier things than exchange one monarch for another." Bossuet rubs at his chin. "If not a monarch, then what did you wish for?"

"To retain the republic that our land had. Though I suppose it would be much changed by the war." Joly finds himself biting his lip, and forces himself to stop before he draws blood. "There were three... I suppose you would call them countries. Mine, the land of the Seul Choix to the north and east, those who control the harbors, and the Sol Rojo to the west. The Empire came mostly from the south, and in perhaps the wisest move of the last century all our people united against them. When it is done... we will try to redraw borders, I suppose, and return to how things had been. For my people, that would be elected representatives."

"And who will participate in the elections?" Musichetta watches him with barely restrained eagerness.

"Everyone who is of age, of course." Joly shrugs.

"Men and women?" Bossuet clarifies.

"Yes."

"With no wealth barrier?" Bossuet waits for Joly's nod. "What about an education requirement?"

"Until we have a functional school system again, that would be a very restrictive rule." Joly frowns.

"And when you have schools again, who will be allowed into them?" Musichetta clasps his hand in both of hers. "Were you serious when you said that women should be allowed in academia?"

"Of course I was. Every child should have a chance at schooling. How else are they to determine what they are best suited for?" Joly casts his mind back, to how things were before war engulfed his continent. "Until they are ten, all children are taught the basics of history, magic, geography—everything they will need. When they are ten, they may choose to pursue an apprenticeship or to continue schooling."

"I should probably ask more about how all that was structured, but I find myself more curious about everyone being taught magic." Bossuet's smile is somewhat guilty. "Was it such a common talent?"

"A modicum of talent was to be found in most people—enough for mistlight, at least. More major talents, like I had... that was much more rare." Joly looks down at his hands, trying to recall the feel of magic gathering and tingling in his body and finding it harder than he expected. Strange, how much a month can change you.

"Your world sounds amazing." Musichetta's arm slides around his waist, Bossuet's across his shoulders. "I'm sorry we haven't been able to help you get back."

"I... am beginning to think I _can't_ get back. That it will be impossible to open a gate from this world." The words stick in his throat, and Joly is glad of their friendship, their compassion, because it is only their arms that keep him steady at the admission.

"We'll keep trying. There are some friends I have that I can consult on the matter." Bossuet's arm tightens around Joly's shoulders. "In the meantime, we'll keep picking your brain for suggestions we might be able to use when we finally get rid of our troublesome monarch."

"Oh, so you admit that it wouldn't be the end of the world to allow women the vote?" Musichetta's words are so pointed that Joly is surprised they don't draw blood.

"You wound me!" Bossuet places a hand to his heart, staggering in mock pain. "I have never said that women should _never_ be given the vote, merely that the priority should be ridding ourselves of our monarch before quibbling about the details."

"Those who would call the exclusion of half the world from politics that determine their fate a _quibble_ are those who do not need to worry about being ignored when those more powerful have gotten what they need." Musichetta arches one eyebrow.

"I'm living here by your good grace, my dear. I am hardly one of the great and powerful." Bossuet studies Joly thoughtfully. "But I do think we'll need to talk a great deal more about your world, during whatever time we have with you."

"I would be happy to do that." Joly smiles at his friend, trying not to note how easy it would be to lean forward and kiss him. "And I hope that you will tell me more about your world, so that I can understand what it is you are fighting for?"

Musichetta smiles, leaning forward and placing a kiss on his cheek. "Nothing would make us happier, love."

XXX

They wash that evening.

It has been a twice-weekly ritual, the acquiring of hot water and the cleaning of dust and sweat from their bodies. The three of them share the main room of the house while they do, scrubbing backs and shoulders and other difficult to reach places. Joly suspects it is a ritual that he started, during his first week there, when he would find himself freezing mid-motion, the act of becoming clean somehow having gotten tangled up in his thoughts with the desperate exhaustion and terror that had resulted in his stumbling into this world in the first place.

If they mind seeing him naked or mind him seeing them naked, they don't act like it. Musichetta always watches, with a faint, fond smile, as Bossuet cleans him down; he tries not to watch while Bossuet helps Musichetta and Musichetta helps Bossuet to clean, though he can't rightly say that he hasn't stolen any looks. He _is_ only twenty-two, after all, and they are both gorgeous people.

The first few weeks there is a sort of easy affection during the ritual, but nothing sharp, nothing electric. After his defense of Musichetta, though, something... changes. He isn't sure what it is. Do they view him differently, now that they have seen him willing to fight? Now that they have discussed politics and war, is he more than just the strange waif that fell into their world? Or has he somehow impressed them, made that slight curl to Musichetta's lips appear, that lingering of Bossuet's hands on his back?

Or perhaps he is just reading what he wishes he could have into their reactions.

That is the more likely explanation, and he tells himself firmly that he will just enjoy their company as he dresses for the evening.

XXX

"He's adorable."

"Musichetta, love..." Bossuet laughs as he studies her, no real hurt in his eyes as he pushes himself up on one elbow to see her more clearly and shakes his head. "Was I really _that_ unimpressive?"

"Oh, no, you were quite satisfactory." Musichetta runs a finger over Bossuet's scalp, down through the hair that grows thickly on the sides of his head as though to mock the bald spot in the center. " _And_ you're gorgeous. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. But Joly really is quite adorable."

"I would have to agree with that." Bossuet snuggles in closer to her side, his body warm and solid and firm.

"I know. I've seen the way you watch him, too." Musichetta kisses Bossuet's nose. "I know it's only been five weeks, but since it seems that he will likely be with us for a rather long time... perhaps it's something we should talk about?"

Bossuet pulls her closer, and though the November night isn't terribly cold, Musichetta feels a shiver run up and down her back. "He's easy to talk to. Entertaining. Serious when he feels he needs to be. And as you say, a very cute man. But we've no idea what his people's thoughts on these matters are, and it seems rather a lot to spring on someone when they've nowhere else to go."

"Well, then, take him to meet more of your friends! I'll do the same with mine." Musichetta kisses her lover's nose again. "But if we still feel the same about him, and he is amenable...?"

"He's from a different world." Bossuet's eyes study the solid ceiling where their guest appeared, weeks that now seem like a lifetime ago. "But I feel... I feel as though we've known him forever. As though he's known _me_ forever."

"I know what you mean." Musichetta runs her fingers gently down Bossuet's face. "In a few weeks, then?"

Bossuet nods. "If Combeferre and he don't find a way to get him home... in a few weeks..."

It hangs between them, an unspoken promise, and Musichetta leans down, kissing Bossuet as deeply as she can. Sliding her leg over his, she drapes herself atop him, waiting for a suggestion that she continue or stop.

His hands slide down her side, claim her hips, maneuver her in a way that can have only one meaning.

She and Bossuet were friends before she agreed to be his mistress, will be fellow revolutionaries even if their romance falls apart. She is happy with him, finds him engaging and clever and entertaining, even when he is making the most terrible puns. She has no doubt that they would have had fun and likely remained amiable associates even if they _hadn't_ found their lives turned upside down by a man who dreams of injured griffins trying to chew his arm off.

But _with_ Joly...

Ah, when the three of them are together, _that_ is something like she has never experienced before. He has more patience with Bossuet than she does, is able to sit for hours laughing over the most ridiculous puns. He has more compassion for her plight and her particular brand of politics than Bossuet does, though that is perhaps an unfair comparison, given how different Joly's world is from theirs.

And Joly can be so _romantic_ with both of them, though there is always a hesitant uncertainty right now to his kindnesses, a flitting of his eyes between the two of them as though unsure if his gifts and compliments are acceptable.

They will give him time, to ensure that it isn't pressure that brings him here with them. They will give him time, so that he can be certain he will not be able to return to his world, to anyone who might be waiting for him there.

But Musichetta hopes, in a selfish wish that makes her feel slightly guilty, that he will stay, and he will be theirs, and together the three of them will be something more than she can even imagine.

XXX

War is surprisingly similar no matter what world one is on.

Joly learns that just seven weeks after he arrived, when the general unrest, the growing cold, and dissatisfaction from the people with the results of an election that Joly cannot understand—how can it be an election when it seems that only one out of every hundred people can even vote?—turn his new home into a boiling mass of shouting people, too-fast bullets, and barricades across streets that he was walking down mere days before.

Bossuet and Musichetta tell him that he doesn't need to participate. They tell him that it isn't his fight, since he is still struggling to grasp the complexities of their system and where it is broken.

He tells them that it _is_ his fight, that this is his _home_ , and follows them to the barricade that their friends have created.

Guns are surprisingly easy to use. It is not the first time he has held one—Bossuet had made sure he became familiar with firearms as soon as he seemed to be showing an interest in politics. He is a decent shot, too, all his practice with his staff and his magic coming in handy.

He does little of the actual fighting, though. Instead he finds himself with Combeferre, the man who has been helping him on the problem of a "theoretical" gate between parallel universes, trying to put bodies back together.

Anatomy is the same here as it is in his world, he learns quickly. And though he does not have his magic to cauterize arteries, does not have any spells on hand to speed the healing of bones, he treats the injured as best he can. The bones that he sets will not heal as cleanly as they would if he could sense the injury, but they will heal; the tourniquets that he applies are a poor substitute for a spark of flame directed at a severed vessel, but they are better than the alternative.

Strange, how similar a bone broken by debris can appear to one crushed by a panicking unicorn.

Odd, how there is little difference between the burns given by a dragon and those acquired when one of their guns explodes in a young soldier's face.

Terrifying, how small and terrible the tracts left by the bullets are, and he would almost rather be trying to sew up men struck down by basilisk claws.

Or perhaps it is simply that basilisk claws have become unreal, the injuries they deal made dull by distance and the walls of this implacable physical world.

They send the women away, on the second day of fighting. The government is cracking down brutally on the insurgents that they call rioters, and Enjolras and the other leaders want as few casualties as possible. Musichetta kisses Bossuet, her hands buried in his coat.

Then she comes to Joly, pulls him into a tight embrace, and kisses him as well, despite the blood and dirt and smoke that is coating him.

"You both come home." She makes the words into an order, a command and a demand, though there are tears shining brightly in her eyes. "Come home, and then we'll talk more about this."

When he looks to Bossuet, Joly receives only a grin and a shushing gesture that he has come to know means _later_.

Turning back to his work, to those patients too injured or too stubborn to be moved, he prays that for all of them there will be a later.

XXX

"Four days." Bossuet heaves a sigh as Musichetta runs the sponge over his shoulders, warm water washing away several day's worth of grit and sweat. "Hundreds if not thousands dead. Hundreds imprisoned. And nothing accomplished."

"Not nothing." Musichetta murmurs the words into his ear. "There were barricades on the streets of Paris again. They know that we're serious."

Bossuet laughs, though the sound is tired and mirthless to his own ears. "Did they think we were joking before? Just a little bit of a laugh at the expense of the king?"

"Well..." Musichetta kisses his ear gently. "Some of the political cartoons _are_ quite funny."

Another laugh, more honest, and Bossuet forces his muscles to relax more. "True enough. When we can get them published, at least."

"It will come." Musichetta rests her head on the shoulder that she has just cleaned, looking down at where Joly is finishing wrapping a bandage around Bossuet's leg. "And your prognosis, my good doctor?"

"That you have both the best and the worst luck in the world." Joly pats Bossuet's thigh, above the injury and the bandage job. "You were the only one injured in the final retreat, but it should heal well enough, provided we can keep it clean."

"Good enough." Bossuet reaches out, snagging Joly's shirt and hauling him closer. "Thank you."

The faintest blush colors Joly's cheeks. "You're quite welcome. It's little enough, given all that you've done."

"It's plenty." Bossuet glances to the side, trying to catch Musichetta's eye.

He sees the barest hint of a nod, and before he or Joly can have second thoughts, he leans forward and claims the man's mouth in a kiss.

Joly stills, his hands resting palms-down on his pants.

Bossuet releases his shirt, tongue flicking over his lips, hoping that he hasn't just made a terrible mistake. "Joly... we talked, Musichetta and I..."

Musichetta saves him from his stumbling tongue. "We wanted to give you all the time in the world, to settle in and be comfortable, but time is not something that we can ever take for granted. We are both... incredibly fond of you, Joly. You are sweet and funny and... if you wanted to..."

"Stay with us." Musichetta's hand has found his, and Bossuet clutches it. "Make our duo a trio."

"You..." Joly's eyes dart from Bossuet's face to Musichetta's and back. "Forgive me if I say something silly, but am I understanding right? I am being invited to be romantically involved with both of you?"

"Yes, Joly." Bossuet can hear the smile in Musichetta's voice, and she wraps her arms around him, hugs him tight as they both face Joly. "That's what we're offering. And certainly you've no need to accept. We are very happy with your friendship. But if you wanted... something a bit different from friendship..."

"I didn't think..." Joly's face is scarlet, but it seems to be joy rather than distress as he smiles tentatively at them. "Among my people, a trio like you talk about... it wouldn't be done. Life partnerships are made among only two people."

Bossuet can't help a little disbelieving snort. "I imagine, if you were to look hard enough for it, you would find that what you _think_ happens and what _actually_ happens isn't quite so neat."

"Perhaps..." Joly smiles tentatively. "Though I would hazard a guess it is not terribly common here, since most of the life partners—married people—seem to be only two people."

"Oh, marriage." Musichetta heaves her own deep sigh. "Marriage is something else entirely. Perhaps we'll be able to sort that mess out when we're done with the politics."

Bossuet pats her hand. "I suspect it's rather tied in with the politics. But though what we're talking about would be... informal, I suppose, merely an arrangement that the three of us would have, it isn't unheard of. Certainly you've heard Prouvaire or Bahorel or Courfeyrac or one of the others describing something similar?"

"I have heard... jokes about multiple partners." Joly studies him now with solemn eyes. "But I would not wish this to be a joke. And it is clear already that there would be no hiding of one partner from another, since all three of us are here discussing it."

"Like reasonable adults, rather than children who enjoy flitting about and keeping secrets. Though that is unfair to your friends, I know, Bossuet. Despite the ridiculous situations Courfeyrac finds himself in, it is usually not due to a lack of forthrightness on his part." Musichetta comes around Bossuet, settles at his side, still grasping his hand as she studies Joly. "You would be our lover, Joly, and we would be yours. Where it goes from there... I suppose that depends on how our little revolution goes."

Joly nods, slowly. "Will you give me a few hours to think on it?"

Bossuet smiles. "Think as long as you want. There's no pressure and no rush."

None other than the threat of death or imprisonment that breathes down their necks at all times, but Bossuet knows he doesn't need to mention that to either of them.

It is rather hard to forget it, after all, when the room and all its occupants still smell of gunpowder.

XXX

Joly excuses himself to the bedroom, leaving Musichetta to finish caring for Bossuet.

He gathers his staff, which Bossuet arranged to have topped with a silver knob so that it resembles a walking stick from this world, through some convoluted bit of friendships, acquaintanceship, and debt.

He runs through every spell he can think of, knowing all the while that none of them will work.

This world, even if it is not inimical to him and his survival, does not condone magic.

This world, which is, he realizes as he stares at his staff that is now most useful as a bludgeon, _his_ world.

It should trouble him more. It _does_ trouble him, in many ways. He has friends that he will miss. Family that will mourn him. A war that will continue without him.

But it was a war they were winning. At high cost, because one life is a life too many to be spent on the foolishness of empire, but they were winning. He has no doubt that they _will_ win—have perhaps already won.

Perhaps it wasn't simple foolishness on his part that resulted in his being sent here. Perhaps _here_ is where he is needed, to fight in this war that seems much more precarious.

Or perhaps he is simply trying to make himself feel better about not feeling bad enough.

He presents himself to them again when it is time for bed, leaning his staff-cane very carefully in a corner. He clasps his hands behind his back, squares his shoulders, a military parade rest, and gives his answer. "If you will have me, then I am very happy to be yours."

For a moment he's not sure they've understood, Musichetta and Bossuet simply blinking at him. Then they laugh, and Musichetta gathers him into a fierce embrace. Bossuet follows a few seconds later, the man's movements hampered by his injury.

They do little more than cuddle that evening, all of them still exhausted from the battle, content merely to touch the others and know that they are still alive and relatively whole.

There is peace, in falling asleep sandwiched between the two of them, a peace such as Joly hasn't felt since three days before he fell through the portal, when the battle began on his world.

He may have to find another way to refer to the world where he originated, though, since he thinks, as exhaustion weights his eyes and he takes comfort from the sounds of their breathing, that _your_ world is where you are most comfortable and happy.

And right now, his world is as close as the heartbeats that lull him into sleep, the heartbeats of the people whose war he has taken on as his own.


End file.
